I courted romantic love very early on. It was the time before the Internet and there was one TV channel. Having relationships was a form of entertainment, particularly for young women whose parents were preoccupied with themselves.
The thrill of flirting was better than any Harlequin novel I’d ever poured over, and I dressed with more intention than I ever would. For hours, I daydreamed about running into my crush in an empty school hallway. Behind my closed bedroom door, I practiced alluring lines, coquettish smiles, and kissing my own hand. Just imagining the face of a crush made me randy.
My first relationship was with an older boy. It was all drama. Long tearful conversations that ended in make-out sessions. Angry, hurt phone calls that ended with hang-ups. Surprise appearances with halfhearted apologies. The relationship was all consuming. A rollercoaster ride of emotions that enthralled my young self — better than Moonlighting times Dirty Dancing to the power of the Who’s the Boss? episode when Tony walks in on Angela coming out of the shower.
The intensity of all those emotions on a repeat cycle had me believing that I was in a meaningful relationship. After all, I thought, if it’s not real and important, then why am I engrossed? Why would I be invested in a meaningless relationship? Why would I care if it wasn’t worth caring…
